The Sensible Necktie and Other Stories of Sherlock Holmes

by Peter K Andersson

  Holmes returned just before lunch, and he was in a cheerful mood.

  “A fruitful morning, I see?” I said as I folded up my newspaper.

  “Is my demeanour that obvious? I must learn to be more reticent in your company, or else my innermost thoughts might be visible on my face.”

  “Is that such a bad thing?”

  “If only you knew, Watson. If only you knew.”

  We chuckled and Holmes took his place beside me by the fire.

  “Yes, the morning has been quite fruitful. I have made some inquiries concerning Mr Winstanton and his business venture, and I have been to see Gregson to find out the identity of the pickpocket victims.”

  I shook my head. “I find it a bit strange that you should automatically direct your suspicions towards the publican and the victims of the robberies. Not all businessmen have illicit motives, and not all men of distinction have skeletons in their closets.”

  Holmes put his forefinger to his mouth and looked at me broodingly. “Watson. How would you react if you fell victim to a pocket picking?”

  “What do you mean? I would be distraught, of course. You know I’m a bit hard up at the moment.”

  “Yes, but what would your instantaneous reaction be?”

  “I suppose I would call out.”

  “Call out?”

  “Yes. ‘Stop thief.’ Or words to that effect.”

  “Yes. That is what we would say a pickpocket victim would do, is it not? We have it from Oliver Twist, don’t we? When Oliver becomes the scapegoat for the Artful Dodger and the lynch mob is formed.”

  “Yes. Happens every day in this city.”

  “Don’t you think that depiction is a little dated?”

  “Well, the book is a few decades old. What are you driving at?”

  “You and I can count ourselves lucky that we have never - touch wood - fallen victim to pickpockets, but for people who have not, it is difficult to comprehend just how one would react to it. The common assumption is that you become frantic and shout ‘Stop thief’, and maybe that is how people did react in Dickens’ time. But city people are different now. They are more subdued and discreet, for one, and what is more, if you lose something in a public house, would you automatically assume that you have been robbed? Some of these victims must have been intoxicated at the moment. Would they not suspect themselves of carelessness and be rather ashamed? It is just a thought, but when Winstanton said that all of the victims had shouted out in the same manner, it made me suspicious.”

  “Suspicious of what?”

  “And then there is the question of the Lord.”

  “You mean the one who was robbed? His name was in the morning paper.”

  “So the press have got hold of the affair now, have they? How very careless of Gregson.”

  “Lord Logan, was it?”

  “Yes. His presence in this business made me wary from the moment I heard of it.”

  “Why? The place seems to be frequented by many men of his class.”

  “Yes. Which is why it is strange that only one such illustrious gentleman should figure in this whole affair, while the other victims are all common-or-garden run-of-the-mill sort of men. Why waste time on picking poor men’s pockets when there are rich men about?”

  “I suppose you have a point.”

  “Now, last night our presence must have deterred the culprits, but tonight we shall be there in disguise, and hopefully have our hands on this gang once and for all.”

  “Gang? But Holmes, you said this was not the work of a gang!”

  “I said it was not the work of a pickpocket gang. But it is the work of a gang.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “All will be revealed this evening. I seem to remember you speaking a few days ago of some old suits that you wished to dispose of. If you could retrieve the shabbiest and most worn of those suits, we shall soon be at the Princess Louise, posing as a couple of down-at-heel bookkeepers.”

  Apart from my worn suit - which had large and visible moth holes on the sleeve to which Holmes replied with a “Marvellous, Watson” - Holmes supplied me with an uncomfortable and itchy false beard to wear on our pub visit. I could not help but feel ridiculous, but Holmes put on a pair of round spectacles and a small waxed moustache which more than surpassed me in silliness, and so I was satisfied. When we arrived at the pub it was half past six and the interior was already brimming with people. Before we entered, though, Holmes led me aside to a dark passageway a few yards from the front of the pub, where a gathering of men was hiding in the shadows. As we approached them, I recognised one of them as Inspector Gregson and the rest as uniformed policemen.

  “Is everything ready?” asked Holmes.

  “Absolutely,” said Gregson with the confidence reserved for the voices of police officers.

  “Perfect. You know the signal. Now it is only for Watson and me to mix with the crowd. Come, Watson.”

  I understood from this intermission that Gregson and his men were standing ready to rush in and apprehend the culprit if Holmes and I caught him red-handed, and saw no need to ask Holmes about it, but I was unsure of how our time would be spent until that moment.

  “It is perfectly simple, Watson. Mingle with the customers and keep an eye open for anything that looks suspicious.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “We will know that when we see it. This is for attracting Gregson’s attention.”

  He handed me a police whistle, and was through the doors before I had time to protest.

  Inside, the crowd was manic, and within seconds, I had lost sight of Holmes. I realised I had to adapt to the situation, so I brazed myself and dived into the mass of men before me. After a few minutes, I had managed to make my way to the counter, and ordered a glass of port. The man next to me gave me a look when the barmaid served me the drink, as if it was something exotic to him. I raised my glass to him and smiled. He responded by raising his beer tankard.

  “I haven’t seen you around here before,” he remarked.

  “No, I usually go to another place near here. But a friend suggested this place to me. Apparently a lot of influential people come here, which might be good if you’re trying to make a name for yourself.”

  I was quite proud of this introduction, as it would lead into the topic of coming here for the purpose of acquiring wealth. But my drinking partner seemed only amused by my naïve attitude.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard some men come here for that purpose. But they soon find out it is quite pointless. You see…” And he raised his hand and pointed across the counter to the inner rooms. “…they’re over there, and we’re over here. It’s just like anywhere else, only here the walls between us are made of wood as well as money.”

  “The only thing that remains to do, I suppose, would be to steal their money.” I realised that this remark was a bit too direct, but I was struggling to find something suitable to say. The man just laughed, however, and raised his glass once more.

  I looked about to see if I could spot Holmes, but the crowd was too dense. I took my glass and tried to squeeze away from the counter, only to find myself trapped in the middle of the room, surrounded by the backs of tailcoats and jackets. I stretched my neck to get an overview and heard a mumbled outcry from another part of the establishment, soon followed by the sound of a police whistle. The moment had come! A theft had taken place. People around me started to move about, and in this confusion I managed to get to the door and rushed out into the corridor. I continued in the direction of the sounds, which was the second compartment on the right-hand side of the bar. Gregson and his men were there already, and Holmes was standing next to a stout man in a brown billycock, who was talking very loudly.

  “This is an outrage, Inspector! How appropriate that you were here to see
this. Only a few days ago, a friend of mine was robbed in this very establishment, and now I come here only to become the victim of the same crime. Surely there is something amiss with this place!”

  The inspector implored him to calm down and explain what had been stolen from him.

  “My watch and chain. A gold chain, it was.”

  “And do you have any notion of how long ago the theft occurred, sir?”

  “I checked the time only a few minutes ago.”

  Gregson looked at Holmes, who smiled back.

  “I think you can arrest this man, Gregson,” he said and laid his hand on the man’s shoulder.

  “What?” exclaimed the man. “I am the victim, sir, whoever you are, and you should make efforts to apprehend the culprit.”

  “There is no culprit,” replied Holmes.

  “No culprit? What poppycock is this?”

  “There is no culprit, because you never had a watch on you. At least not since you came into this public house twenty minutes ago.”

  “What are you implying?”

  By this time, Mr Winstanton had come into the room and was observing the scene with much interest.

  “Yes, Holmes,” he said. “What are you implying?”

  “Mr Winstanton, your establishment is not the hunting ground for a gang of pickpockets. It is the place of action for a gang of wrongful accusers, like this gentleman here.”

  “Wrongful accusers?”

  “They are in the employ of one of your great competitors, and have been ordered to come here and deter customers by spreading the false rumour that this is a notorious haunt for pickpockets. They number three or four men, at least, but their performances are a bit flawed. For instance, it never occurred to them that pickpockets would only target the richest customers in a place as this. This gentleman would hardly be able to afford a gold watch-chain. Instead, they thought it best to make it seem that the pickpockets were everywhere. The only illustrious victim in this whole affair - Lord Logan - does not exist.”

  The man in the brown hat was silent, at last, and Gregson’s men escorted him out of the premises.

  “But who would wish to do this, Mr Holmes?” said Winstanton.

  “If we could talk privately for a moment,” said Holmes, “I will explain as much as I can.”

  Winstanton brought us back into a small office next to the kitchens, where he fell into a rickety chair.

  “Mr Winstanton,” began Holmes, “you know that you are in a very vulnerable position. This venture has been a large investment for you, and you have sought help from the very highest of circles. But the pub business is a seedy business at heart, and creating such a lavish public house can be very provocative. So it was quite clear to me, when I started to get a picture of your situation, that you are a likely target for acts of sabotage or attempts to create a scandal. Finding out who commissioned these men to come into your pub and claim to have been pick pocketed will be difficult, of course, but whoever it is, they will find out that their scheme has been exposed. I advise you to be wary of similar actions in the future.”

  “Mr Holmes, I am extremely grateful to you. It seems to me that you never fell for this scheme in the first place.”

  “I had my suspicions. When you mentioned that all of the victims had called out in just the same manner, it appeared curious to me. We think that people are very predictable and instinctive in moments of crisis, but human nature is more complex than that. Now, if you will excuse us, Watson and I wish to get out of these ridiculous clothes as soon as possible.”

  “Of course, of course. There is just one more thing, Mr Holmes.”

  “Yes?”

  “In what way is my wife deceitful? And how do you know?”

  Holmes stopped in the doorway. “She kisses you on the cheek every morning, does she not?”

  “Yes. How can you tell?”

  “Because she leaves a few hairs on the shoulder of your jacket every time she does so, and they are hairs that have been dyed. I don’t think her deception goes any further than that, but yesterday when I was in the dark as to why you had called for us, I guessed that her habit of dyeing was indicative of a more profoundly deceptive personality. I was wrong.”

  Mr Winstanton smiled. “I’m glad that even you can be wrong, Mr Holmes.”

  The Adventure of the Tooting Pyramid

  There were many issues in connection with the mystery of Albany Place that were never cleared up at the time of its occurrence, and which have many times since made me think that I should communicate my own perspective on the matter to the reading public. I have hesitated in doing so only due to my respect for the people involved and my reluctance to evoke the painful image of Miss Landseer, the reclusive spinster, and the way she sat in her large armchair, bound to it by chains of fate. The reason I have finally picked up my pen to recall the details of the case is a most heart-warming letter from Miss Brill, the old woman’s young companion and live-in maid, asking me to make public my version of the story so that Miss Landseer’s honour might be restored. Miss Brill, who cared so selflessly for the old woman in the last years of her life, awoke my feelings of sympathy just as much as her employer did, and I am glad to present this account as a tribute to the strength of these two women and the model of humanity that their life together comprised.

  It all began on a dreary day in September, when Holmes, after a hiatus of contact for a couple of weeks, sent me a spontaneous telegram inviting me to dine with him. My wife was entertaining some female friends that evening, so she readily consented to my absence, and, having seen off the last patient of the day, I took a hansom to Piccadilly where Holmes was waiting for me in a secluded booth at the Criterion. He looked delighted to see me, and I was glad to have caught him in a cheery mood.

  “You arrived at just the critical moment, Watson! Have a seat, old boy, and take a discreet look at that waiter over there. I believe he is new here and from the way he casually carries those trays of wine glasses, he wishes to impress his new employer with his ease of comportment. His lack of experience is noticeable in the small details, however, for he is a bit too casual now and then, and he almost spilled some wine on a lady’s dress two minutes ago. It is only a matter of time before a serious accident occurs.”

  Holmes had hardly finished his sentence before the wine glasses on the young waiter’s tray started to glide as he swung round a table, and one by one they crashed to the floor. The sound was drowned out by the constant murmur from the dinner guests, but several of the closest diners were spattered by wine, and a gentleman quickly rose to scold the overconfident waiter. Holmes turned away from the commotion and glanced at me with one of his imperceptibly penetrating looks.

  “I trust you are well, Watson? Jenkins back with another of his imagined maladies, is he?”

  Philip Jenkins was one of my regular patients, a man of thirty-five who was in excellent health besides suffering from a most unrelenting hypochondria, and he would visit my practice at least once a month asking me to examine some ache or other that he fancied was a symptom of serious illness.

  “Jenkins did see me today, yes. How could you tell?”

  “You once told me about his curious habit of putting his tie-pin in your lapel when he unbuttons his shirt for you to listen to his heartbeat.”

  “Yes?”

  “This time he has forgotten his tie-pin.”

  I looked down on my lapel and, lo and behold, there was Jenkins’ tie-pin where he had left it a few hours earlier. I laughed at this foresight, but let it sit there so that I would be reminded to send it back to him at the earliest opportunity.

  “Yes, well. I have been rather busy these past few days, if that is a reasonable excuse for my absent-mindedness.”

  “Do not feel ashamed, my boy. Absent-mindedness is an unavoidable consequence of professional
success. I am only too glad that your practice is thriving.”

  “You hardly get absent-minded when your practice is thriving,” I quipped.

  Holmes took a few puffs on his cigar, obviously trying to hide a contented smile. “My mind is never absent. That is my curse.”

  The last remnants of the broken wine glasses were now swept up, and the diners at the other end of the room had resumed their pleasant dinner conversations. The inexperienced waiter, however, had vanished from the scene, and I sympathised for a second with his unfavourable confrontation with the restaurant manager that was most likely taking place in the kitchen. I forgot him once Holmes and I started to converse on sundry topics, and it was not until we had enjoyed a delicious meal involving guinea-fowl and trifle that he mentioned to me the real reason behind his invitation.

  “I am due to go out to Tooting in a few minutes. I have received a pleading letter from a poor young woman, and her appeal is too pathetic to ignore.”

  “What does it concern?”

  “As far as I can ascertain, it concerns loneliness, melancholy, lack of love, and defencelessness - matters that, judging from their occurrence in people’s lives, are trivial and mundane, but which our time seldom takes enough of an interest in to broach. There is neither scandal, drama nor adventure in these topics, only the drawn-out smouldering tragedy of people who are moderately unfortunate, and thus will never warrant the charity of the Salvation Army.”